Para que puedas ver
by Citiesofcolor
Summary: She had never wanted to be one of those women who sat their grief on their elbows, yet here she was again, staring out the window.


**Title:** Para que puedas ver  
**Characters/pairing:** OC, Jane  
**Rating:** K  
**Warnings: **NA  
**Word count:** 1370  
**Summary: **She had never wanted to be one of those women who sat their grief on their elbows, yet here she was again, staring out the window.  
**A/N: **Inspiration struck today in Spanish Lit. We are reading "La Casa en Calle Mango" by Sandra Cisneros, a book that I adore. It is a collection of vignettes, and the one this particular fic was inspired by comes from one entitled "Mi Nombre" or "My Name". In it, a girl, Esperanza, describes her great-grandmother and translated it reads:

"And the story goes she never forgave him. She looked out the window her whole life, the way so many women sit their sadness on an elbow. I wonder if she made the best with what she got or was she sorry because she couldn't be all the things she wanted to be."

When I read this today in class I couldn't help but remember the nameless women from the pilot Jane tried to rescue before getting attacked by Hoyt. This story is just a way for me to answer my own questions about her.

The title, when translated, means "so you can see"

* * *

Melissa O'Halloran stared out of her apartment window again. She had never wanted to be one of those "women who sit their sadness on their elbow", but it seems that this is where she spends most of her days. As they say, the best laid plans of mice and men...

Apparently women weren't included in those plans.

It seems to her that every day she ends up in the same spot. Right here by the window in her semi-expensive coastal Florida apartment. From where she sits she can look at her neighbors through their windows, in a way that makes her think of Boston, back before she was married and had her own apartment. Back before...

The woman across the way laughs and points to her girlfriend when she sees Melissa, waving a mock friendly arm. Melissa is sure that the woman thinks that she's some kind of pervert, but honestly she's just too lonely. She's been here almost three months and has not driven anywhere except the closest grocery store. And she's still alone, a product of being too shy to make friends and too afraid to go very far outside. She keeps to herself and sits on the balcony. Of course, this is not why people move to Florida, to sit inside and stare at their neighbors. The reason she was here in the first place sits behind the apartment building; blue, blue, blue ocean, a million shades of blue. So many she can't name them all. Forever crashing, breaking, rushing, lapping at the shore. If she sits outside long enough, Melissa can hear the waves breaking and residents and tourists tripping their way up the beach.

Despondency takes an even firmer hold on her throat, and she tries to swallow the lump that has mysteriously appeared. She twists her wedding ring and then gasps at the burning sensation; her finger is already chafed and red from doing that same thing for three months.

James would have loved this view; he had always wanted to get away from the city. He always wanted to live in a place where you could walk to the ocean. He always wanted to be able to taste the salt in the breeze, to, in his words, be able to stand on the edge of the world and look out at the void. God, she had loved him and his expressiveness, his transparency, his love.

It had been her therapist's idea for her to leave Boston, and Florida had been her first choice. Now she regrets her decision. Everything James always dreamed about was here, but he wasn't.

He was back in Boston, six feet under the ground with a slab of marble over the top, cross and all.

Not coming back.

She twists her ring again.

James had saved enough money for them to live comfortably in a very exclusive community, and with only one person spending money now, she has enough to not work again for quite awhile. She's thankful. Melissa is pretty sure that her psyche couldn't have taken it.

But, even with the multitude of things to do in and near an ocean, she still spends most of her time in the same spot, mesmerized by the ocean and the memories that are so close to the surface; a wound that she can't help but pick at.

She thinks if she stops it might not scar.

She still has some time to fill before her piano instructor, a sweet, grandmotherly woman, arrives. Non-threatening and comforting, Melissa had chosen her because she smelled like suntan lotion and had shown her pictures of her grandchildren 5 minutes into their conversation.

She wonders if she should try to take a nap. It feels like she hasn't slept in months.

Probably because she hasn't.

Ever since the Surgeon had invaded her life she found it almost impossible to sleep. She also has a hard time wearing anything tight on her wrists too; bracelets were our of the question, even her gold one, a present from her mother on her twenty-first birthday. Duct tape bindings leave an impression.

So does being raped in front of your husband.

And for that matter, so does having your husband killed in front of you.

Not to mention the whole bit about being tied up in basement.

To make things worse, she still has the damn nightmares. She still sees his deceptively benign face, the malicious smile, the malevolently glittering eyes as he looms over her. And she still sees her too, the lady cop, Jane Rizzoli.

Again and again, she remembers what it was like to see her savior pinned to the floor like a butterfly in a case, arms outstretched like she was lying on a crucifix.

She doesn't remember screaming though. She's not sure whether this is relevent or not. Melissa does remember her whimpering, and somehow this makes her think of Sunday School when she was young. Rizzoli crucified, a lamb before a lion, trapped for sacrifices like in the times of the Israelites. This impossibly strong woman reduced to quivering.

Just like she had been.

She remembers Hoyt's soft voice whispering words that seemed to slither over Rizzoli's skin and make a home in her heart. She remembers her partner too, the doughy man who so obviously cared about her fluttering about like a nervous child, making Rizzoli be the one to to be responsible, to keep a hold on her emotions. To be in control. _Ha_ Melissa thinks. Control. An expectation completely unfair to a woman pinned to the floor.

It goes black after that. The doctors say that she passed out from combined exhaustion and physical trauma. She believes them.

It still haunts her that she never thanked Rizzoli for saving her life. After she had been checked out by the doctors, she had scurried down the hall to where a kind nurse had told her to find her friend. The sight of her lying there staring at her bandaged hands had drained whatever resolve she had mustered up to speak to her.

It was Rizzoli's face that she remembers most though, something that must have been so beautiful reduced to tears and sweat, paleness and despair.

An orderly opening the door startled her, and Melissa could hear a snatch of the other woman's anguished, tear choked voice rasping over the words.

"Korsak, look what he did to my hands! How am I ever going to play the piano again?"

She remembers too, the article she had looked up after stumbling back to her room, horror on her face and bile in her mouth. **Star Sophomore Wows Judges at Annual Classical Music Competition**. Pictures accompany the article, of a pretty 16-year-old Jane Rizzoli in a black dress and low heels, unafraid grin on her face, caressing her piano.

Melissa shudders and flexes her own fingers, staring at her hands. She traces the veins from her wrists to her fingers through the translucent skin; watching the thin wrists merge into smooth palms, the palms to supple fingers. Fingers that now knew how to traverse ivory keys. Fingers that knew chords, could play songs, could produce music. Ever since the attack, she had felt a compulsion, almost a magnetic attraction, to the stately pianos that produced such varied sounds. Somehow it always seemed to help, the playing. The music was soothing to her mind, and helped allay her fears when they threatened to overwhelm her.

The neighbors sometimes complained about her playing in the middle of the night, for that was what she turned to when The Surgeon stalked her dreams and Jane Rizzoli's haunted, gaunt face and bandaged hands threatened to drive her insane with fear and guilt.

She flexed her hands, and tore her gaze away from the pale, pale skin of her wrists. Maybe she didn't need to sleep. Maybe today wasn't going to be so bad after all.

The bell rang. "Mrs. O'Halloran? It's Cindy."

There was her instructor. Time to go.

Jane Rizzoli may have sacrificed her hands to save her life, but Melissa knew that it was much more than that. Jane Rizzoli had given her soul to save Melissa's, and she wasn't about to overlook the value of such a gift.

No, the magnitude was not lost on Melissa. She was indebted, and she was going to pay it back.


End file.
